Lauren Takes Leave (6 page)

“I should find a new job, is what I should do.”

“Yes, I believe we’ve been over that one before. Maybe
teaching isn’t your calling.” I start the car and pull into traffic.

Kat is quiet for a minute and I switch to speakerphone.
When she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. “Maybe it isn’t.
But then…what is?”

I sigh, thinking about my own questions and uncertainties,
my own life’s dilemmas. “I don’t know, Kitty-Kat. I really don’t. See you in an
hour or so.”

“Where you off to now?”

“Sophie’s.”

“Ooh…have fun.”

I pull up Sophie’s long, winding driveway and find a
space between the Porsche convertible and one of the handyman’s trucks. There
is always commotion at Sophie’s. Today, several workers are on the flat-topped
roof of the contemporary glass fortress that is Sophie’s home, calling out in
Portuguese as they pass tools and supplies to one another. The gardeners are
here as well, their mowers drowning out the sound of the four dogs of different
shapes and sizes barking on the other side of Sophie’s front door.

I think I ring the bell, but actually cannot hear it, so I
wait, waving and talking to the anxious pooches pawing the other side of the
glass. “Where’s your mommy today, huh? Do you have lots of goodies to show me,
doggies? New merch?” They jump on top of one another and push one another out
of the way, nails alternatively clawing against the floor-to-ceiling windows
and tapping against the marble entryway.

“Hold on! Hold on! I’m
coming
!” I hear Sophie call
as the churn of the lawn mowers die. She glides across the landing from the far
side of the house, a brown toy poodle nipping at her heels.

Sophie is about fifty years old and very round. Because of
her amorphous size and shape, she tends to wear lots of black, flowy clothes
that carry the breeze in them and balloon up around her, so you cannot tell
where she ends and the fabric begins. On top of the outfit is always a colorful
shawl or a scarf or a wrap of some sort that adds a bit of gypsy flare. Her
hair is permanently helmeted into a stiff, glossy black bob. She wears bright
lipsticks to match the shade on her long fingernails.

“Lauren!” she cries. She hugs me with one arm while
simultaneously using her boots to kick back the dogs and close the door behind
me. “Long time no see! What a nice surprise! It’s not even time yet for your
annual birthday purchase, is it? When you called, I was like,
no way
!
And then I looked at the time and wondered why you weren’t teaching. Not that
it’s any of my business.” One penciled-in eyebrow is cocked as if to add,
but
of course I’m hoping you’ll tell me why anyway
.

I delay answering her by asking about her daughters, Gigi,
Bebe, and Coco, all of whom I taught at some point in middle school and none of
whom I can tell apart.

The girls are all doing well at college, and we continue
making small talk as we head up the stairs and into Sophie’s expansive living
room. The entire thing is done in crisp white, from the couches to the brick
fireplace to the shelves lining one wall. The far wall has the same
floor-to-ceiling windows as the foyer, beyond which lies the recently manicured
lawn and a pool, not yet open for the season.

But what makes the living room unique is not the all-white
décor or the breathtaking view beyond. It is the handbags.

Covering every nook in every couch, covering every inch of
every shelf, lined up neatly across the glass coffee table and against the
fireplace, and propped atop, astride, and next to the Mies van der Rohe chair
and ottoman, are handbags.

Sophie’s pristine, high-ceilinged, light-filled living
room is holy.

Here is where rich ladies come to pray.

Gucci, Prada, Chanel. Amen.

Judith Leiber, Louis Vuitton, Ferragamo. Amen.

Balenciaga, Chloe, Bottega. Amen.

And, every once in a while…Hermès Birkins and Kellys! Can
I get a
Hallelujah
from the crowd? Amen.

Sophie, who used to work in fashion, had been searching
for a way to work from home when her kids were small. She contacted some fab
friends looking to trade their bags for cash, and the next thing she knew, her
living room was open for business.

Sophie gives an entirely new meaning to the concept of the
mom who works from home.

“I’m the bag lady!” she boasts whenever I introduce her to
a new client. “Look at me. I have bags under my eyes and bags under my chins. I
even have bags under my arms that I won’t show you for fear of scaring you
away. I do not have a body made for clothes.” Here, she always pauses
dramatically and takes a step closer to the newcomer. “I have a body meant for
handbags. And I want to share my love of bags
with you
.”

Women melt at those words.

I am not one of Sophie’s most devout clients, but I do
like to, you know, pay my respects every once in a while. Once a year, I
celebrate getting older by spending some of my hard-earned teaching salary on a
gorgeous designer bag. And the rest of the time? I buy regular bags. Lots of ’em.
Doug likes to joke that I was born—or, at any rate, bred—in a handbag.

As I come fully into view of the living room, I am
overwhelmed, as usual. There is just so much to see, so much to touch. All of
it is sexy, and all of it comes with Sophie’s testimonies. There is soft, tan,
fringed suede (“isn’t that
luscious
”) and bumpy black leather (“it’s
ostrich, you know, ridiculously high-end”) and slouchy and quilty and patent…oh
my!

Sophie picks up a large red bag with interlocking Gs
splattered all over it and a wooden shoulder strap. “Now, I know this is not
your style, Lauren, but isn’t it just
fierce
?”

I make a face and tilt my head. “Not so sure.”

She shakes her hairsprayed helmet at me. “How long have we
known each other? Eight, ten years? You always go for the safe bag. The
classic. Everything about you is sort of…” She looks me up and down. “
Conservative
.
You need to break out a bit. Try something messy, less structured, more…fun!”
And with that, she throws me a shockingly purple Balenciaga motorcycle bag
covered in hardware.

For good measure, I sling it over my shoulder and pose in
the mirror against one wall. “Yeah, nope.”

“Today’s the day. I can just sense it,” she says, clearly
not deterred. On tiptoe, she weaves in and out of the piles of bags, wiggling
her fingers over them like a magician conjuring a rabbit from a hat.

And then she stops, bends over, and grabs one. It is a
large, somewhat slouchy, dark blue Chloe. I actually gasp upon seeing it.

“Ta-dah!” she announces triumphantly.

“It’s so…rock-and-roll!” I gush, immediately taking it
from her and putting it over my arm. “It’s seriously glam.” I turn one way,
then the other. “I love it.” I size up my reflection, as if I’m another woman.
“I’m just not sure it’s me.”

“It’s
so
you,” Sophie concludes. “The new you.”

As I stare at my reflection, I think,
Maybe it’s
actually the old me
.
Coming back
. In high school and college, I used
to dress sort of funky. I used to be playful and edgy and…interesting.

What the hell happened to me? When did I start to equate
“growing up” with being dull and conservative? What’s the big deal about
breaking out a bit, being a little glam, a little fun?

I smile and tell Sophie I’ll take it.

I eventually end up with the Chloe bag tucked like a
poodle at my feet and a cup of tea in my hand. From time to time I reach down
and stroke the soft leather as if it actually is my new pet: dead calf. Sophie
and I have taken a break from posing in front of the mirror with the bags
(which all look great on her; she’s the best model for her merchandise) and are
sitting cross-legged in an available corner of her living room floor.

“This just occurred to me…how do you entertain?” I ask,
looking around. Even her dining room table, on the other side of the fireplace,
has bags piled high across it.

“Oh, I don’t!” She laughs. “I don’t like cooking. And
because of my business”—she gestures around the room—“I feel like I am always
entertaining. It’s a tad exhausting, actually.”

“So is my job,” I say.

“Yes, work is…work.” She shrugs. “Otherwise it would be
called something else. Speaking of which, you never did explain…why aren’t you
at school today? Mental-health day?”

I look at her and nod my head yes, then no. “What I mean
is…” I drift off, considering for a moment spilling the story, telling Sophie
how I purposefully tried to get selected as a juror. But then I’d have to
explain why, and I’m not really sure I have a clear answer for that one. I look
down at my new purchase and stick to the basic truth. “I’m on jury duty.”

“Ugh, poor thing,” she concludes, and I let her believe
it.

Ten minutes later, I push open the heavy, spring-loaded
classroom door and step inside. The lights are off, and a hazy afternoon sun
leaks through the windows. Finger-painted animals cover one wall, while a giant
calendar with movable felt pieces hangs on another. A blue shag circle rug sits
empty in the middle of the room. Spider plants hang limply over the teacher’s
desk. I hear a scratching sound and remember the hamster. What the heck did
this year’s class name it? Hammy? Something original like that. A low, muffled
sound belonging to a human voice startles me.

“Kat?” I whisper loudly. Something about empty classrooms
creeps me out. I flick on the lights and try again, louder this time. “Kat!
C’mon, I know you’re in here. You’ve called me three times since twelve thirty!”

And then I see it—a curling black telephone cord vanishing
into the supply closet at the far end of the room.

Inside, Kat is crouched on a wooden, three-legged kiddie
stool, like a teenager on a toilet seat in a bathroom stall hiding from the
principal during math class. She has the phone cradled under her left ear and a
cigarette clamped between two fingers in her right hand.

“What the hell?” Kat calls out, squinting into the sudden
light. She momentarily loses her balance on the stool and has to put out her
right hand to steady herself.

“Kat, I think the question is ‘What the
fuck?
’ and
I’m supposed to be the one asking it.”

She rolls her eyes and speaks into the phone. “I gotta go.
No, it’s not the administration. It’s just Lauren. Yup. Me, too. TTYL.”

Kat emerges, brushing a stray black curl from her eyes.
“Hang this up for me, will you?” Then she gestures with the cigarette. “Do you
have a light?”

“Is that a
candy
cigarette?”

“Insert second eye roll here. Duh, Lauren. You really
think I’d smoke around those frigging five-year-olds?”

“Such colorful language.”

“I’m outta matches is all. I’ll be golden once I take a
puff.”

“Fine.” I move my thumb across the knuckle of my pointer
finger and hold it out to her. “Use my lighter.”

Kat presses the dusty white sugar stick to her lips and
closes her eyes. “
Much
better. Thanks.”

“Who was that on the phone?” I ask.

“Just…no one.” She takes a bite of the hard candy and
starts chewing.

“It was Varka, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Chew, chomp, puff.

“I thought we talked about this. I thought we agreed that
a ten-dollar-a-minute psychic was not the answer.”

Kat is complete nonchalance. “Depends on the question.
Mercury is in retrograde right now, and Mercury rules travel and
communications, among other things. It means things are gonna be kooky for the
next few weeks.” A smile plays on her lips. “Lauren, Varka has me worried for
our safety.”

“Oh puh-leeze! You know, I don’t need this. I’m ‘off duty’
at school this week. I promised myself I wouldn’t step foot into this building
unless completely necessary.”

“Technically, this is the elementary wing, so you’re not
really
in the middle school, you know.”

“Technically, go to hell.”

“Such colorful language.”

There is a break in our banter, neither of us knowing what
to say next. I meet Kat’s eyes and see for the first time that she must have
been crying. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. I wait.

“Psycho Mom is at me again.”

“What’s the complaint this time?” I ask. “Air toxins? Not
enough visual stimuli in the kindergarten? Too much?”

“Gluten in the finger paints.” She tries to say it with a
straight face but can’t help breaking out in a smile of sorts. It’s not a happy
smile, more like the kind that says,
My life is ridiculous and I’m in on the
joke
. I know the feeling.

“But who eats finger paints?” I ask.

“Son of Psycho Mom does, actually. This little fucker
loves the green. Licks it off his fingers like it’s candy! And he’s allergic!”

“Well, that’s not funny.”

“But his mom is the one who
bought
the paints for
me in the first place because they were ‘environmentally friendly.’ She tried
to petition the school board about it, remember? Get the whole district to
change over their art supplies?”

“Okay,
now
it’s funny.”

The woman stresses me out and I don’t even
know
her. It should be illegal to carry a reputation like that. Poor Kat’s taking
this really hard. I mean, she’s a tough one, generally speaking, but here she
is, laughing so hard she’s crying.

Like, hysterically.

After a minute or so, she still hasn’t stopped. It’s the
kind of laugh/cry combo made by a sociopath in a movie right before he cuts out
someone’s guts and eats them, so I’m starting to get a little uncomfortable. I
scan the room for the blunt scissor caddy and am glad to see it’s safely on the
art cart, on the other side of the room. Next to the finger paints.